


Let's Have Another Round Tonight

by trashsenal



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: also im sorry for the hamilton inspired title, also tho I can't get enough of these two dweebs and theres only like ten fics in existence, and also because this another one of those cliched 'five + 1' things, dude is scary, i wouldn't wanna be fuckin around his territory, lo siento, really tho matt isn't really a team player, sue me, this is low key a bit of a prediction for defenders, why cant it be like 2017 or 2018 already
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-13 03:11:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5692375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashsenal/pseuds/trashsenal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Daredevil ran into Iron Fist, and one time Matt Murdock ran into Danny Rand. </p><p>OR</p><p>For superheroes, good friendships are formed out of circumstance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally can't wait for Defenders, guys, but I think I've already said that like 20 times (I also can't wait for more fanfiction about these two nerds), so I need to shut up. Also, I apologize for the Hamilton song title because I'm Hamiltrash too. Idk man, I just get a really Hamilton/Laurens/Lafayette/Mulligan from the Defenders line up, and of course I think Matt would be A dot Ham because they're realiabLE WITH THE LADIES. Furthermore, though, this piece is detached from my other kind of Defenders two-shot about Matt being an incredulous fuck. Please make sure to give kudos and leave comments!

**I.**

Drug deals always had a furtive, rushed quality to them, as if the engaging parties were scared that someone was always listening. That wasn't quite true-- Matt smelled the heroin before he heard the exchange-- but perhaps it’s in his favor to leave the scum in the dark about his abilities. After all, half the criminals in the city ran away screaming Hail Marys and Glory Be's at the sight of the so-called Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Some of them even carried around little vials of holy water to ward off "actual Satan", and though it did little but get his suit wet, Matt would have played along it he didn’t have a reputation to uphold.

The Chinese were persistent. With Fisk still at Ryker’s and awaiting trial, other mobsters had taken the liberty to occupy the Kitchen while they could. Most of them lasted a couple of months before the Devil chased them out, but the Chinese and the Japanese seemed to be an exception to that rule. Perhaps it was because they'd faced off with the resident vigilante before, but Matt considered it a foolish move to set up camp in the Kitchen again because he wanted them to believe he'd do to them what he did to Fisk. The frustrating part about this, though, was the fact that Matt thought he'd gotten rid of the Chinese and their heroin almost three years back. The Hand had stayed away for nearly a year after that, and hadn’t bothered since, but he knew they, too, were lurking in the shadows of the city.

Matt chases after the dealer, tracking his disgusting scent across the rooftops. Normally, he would’ve scared the client into never buying drugs again, but he wants to get to the dealer before he gets too far. The man stops in an alley, and it gives Matt the perfect opportunity to strike.

But somebody beat him to it.

He hasn’t seen—well, _seen—_ such good form since his fights with The Hand. By this point, Matt was used to the occasional shitty, copy-cat, “Daredevil-inspired” vigilante trying to deliver their own form of justice upon the city, but this person _definitely_ didn’t fit into that category. He was tall, around the same height and build as Matt, and _had_ to have a considerable amount of training, and—holy shit, _what was that?_

It was a flare of some sort. No, it was more like a flame because it was unnaturally warm, and it seemed to engulf the man’s raised fist. It _radiated_ power. If Matt were any more like the Punisher, he wouldn’t have cared what happened to the dealer, but he couldn’t just let his source of information be killed by… Whatever the hell that was. He jumps down into the alley, and throws his club in the direction of the man. He’s surprised, Matt can tell by the way his heartbeat spikes ever-so-slightly, but doesn’t release the dealer. The flame-thing, however, is gone because Matt can’t feel its warmth.

“ _Get out of my city_.” Matt growls, letting his voice descend about an octave. “ _Now.”_

“I’m on your side—“ The man starts, but Matt cuts him off.

“I don’t care,” He says, low and threatening. “I have it all under control. Get _out.”_

The other man reluctantly lets go of the dealer (Jesus, he’s _crying_ with fear _),_ and Matt takes his chance to attack. On his side or not (he hadn’t lied about that; Matt would know if he had), he can’t let someone with those kind of skills run around his city. It’s too big a threat; too much a liability he can’t make himself responsible for.

Plus, he doesn’t play well with others.

Suddenly, the alley erupts into a fight. A real one, at that. Most people he’d faced off with as of recently were down on the ground in minutes. But this—this was _artistry._ If he’d had the time or patience, Matt would’ve admired the other man’s theatrics, but he had neither. It was all kicks, flips, and expert parries, moves only trained professionals would know, and then some. Matt manages to get a few blows in, but each time he gets close, his opponent nimbly manages to dodge his advance. Likewise, though, every time he gets close, Matt finds some way to avoid getting hit. He’s not exactly sure how long the fight drags on for, but the other man’s breathing patterns betray his growing exhaustion. Matt, too, realizes he’s tired, but he’s _not_ about to let his become a stalemate.

And it doesn’t. Suddenly, without precedent, he’s knocked flat on his ass by his opponent. He’s not exactly sure how it happened, but his lungs are devoid of any air as the wind is knocked out of him. The alley is heavy with the salty scent of sweat, the copper twang of foreign blood, and… Tea tree oil shampoo. Matt groans and gets up, ready for another round, but the man is gone. He leaves a trail of sweat, blood, and tea tree oil in his wake. There’s still a radiant warmth in the atmosphere reminiscent of a flame, and it makes Matt’s skin prickle beneath his suit.

The dealer is nowhere to be found. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to everyone that gave kudos and comments!

**II.**

Matt is eternally grateful to Claire for keeping her window unlocked.

He’s not particularly hurt tonight (just a dislocated shoulder, probably, if he’s judging by the pain in his arm), but that doesn’t prevent him from stopping by to check in on her. Perhaps it’s a habit now, stopping by briefly to make sure she’s safe, because he still has some guilt on his conscience when it comes to her, but they’re friends. Good friends, at that. So, it’s okay to make rounds (especially since he’s not _that_ hurt, and doesn’t need immediate medical attention because it slows him down).

He climbs in through the window, his shoulder protesting with pain, but the scent of tea tree oil nearly knocks him off the sill. The strong, dominating scent had been burning his nose and throat since last night; it wasn’t a scent he liked to begin with, but last night’s skirmish had really made him loathe it. He listens closely before entering the apartment. There were voices. One was distinctly male, a rumbling bass, and the other was Claire’s. Matt catches a few words—“head injury”, “ _dios mio,_ he’s as bad as this other guy in a mask I know” _—_ but strains his hearing even further to listen to the heart beats inside the room. There were three: one familiar, one unfamiliar, and one that definitely should _not_ have been familiar. He opens the window, fists curled, and closes it behind him.

“Someone’s at your window.” The man with Claire notes. “You just leave it open like that?”

Matt hears Claire sigh. “Yeah, because Daredevil doesn’t know how to use a damn door.”

He makes his way through her living room, still trying to ignore the astringent scent of tea tree oil. Claire sighs again as she walks up to him. “I was wondering when you were going to—holy _shit, your shoulder.”_

Matt wants to peel off his cowl, but then remembers she has company over. The man she was talking with retreats back to the source of the tea tree oil. Matt tries not to notice or care. He furrows his brow through the cowl. “Is it that bad?”

“It’s swollen _through_ your costume,” She says, gently placing a hand on it to assess it. It feels like a hundred needles stabbing him at once. “What did you do to dislocate it like that?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but Claire cuts him off. “Y’know what? Never mind. I don’t _want_ to know. Just… Sit, or something, while I go get some ice.”

She hurries towards her kitchen—muttering something about concussions, dislocated shoulders, and “dumbass superheroes”—while Matt reluctantly takes a seat in the living room as far away as possible from her other two patients. It feels more like a waiting room in a hospital.

“So, you’re the reason Claire keeps her windows unlocked?”

The man Claire was talking to, the one with the voice like thunder, addresses him. Matt clenches his jaw. “I don’t think her neighbors would appreciate me knocking on her door.”

He doesn’t say anything, and Matt prefers to keep it that way. He’d rather not socialize with the other vigilantes of New York City after last night. It pains him to admit it, but it was rather embarrassing to get his ass handed to him by a new guy that smelled like tea tree oil and high-end cologne when he’d been the only established vigilante for the past three years. Even if new ones like the annoying teenager that ran around Midtown (Spider-Man, right?) kept popping up, Daredevil was the _only_ one truly feared by the New York crime syndicate. After all, thugs and dealers didn’t keep religious relics on them to ward off Spider-Man or the man lying unconscious on Claire’s couch. Claire re-enters the living room with a bag of ice in her hands. Matt hisses as she presses it against his shoulder.

“So, have you two met?” She asks almost nonchalantly as she keeps the bag of ice flush against the injury. Matt knows she’s referring to him and her patient that is currently not passed out.

Matt shakes his head. The other man doesn’t say anything. Claire makes a noise in the back of her throat. “Daredevil, that’s Luke Cage. Luke, this is Daredevil. I would think you’d be acquaintances already, considering the vigilante community isn’t very big.”

She’s right: it’s not. It is, in fact, a small, _small_ world.

“Ain’t ever run into him.” The man, Luke, says. He shifts in his seat. “Though I’ve heard plenty about the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not the only one.” Matt manages curtly, though he’s suffocating in tea tree oil. It makes him jerk his head towards Claire’s couch. “Who’s he?”

“Iron Fist,” Claire explains, and Matt nearly snorts. “Luke’s partner. I don’t suppose you’ve met, either.”

Claire motions for him to take the ice bag and keep it pressed against his shoulder. The cold seeps through the leather of his gloves, but it’s not nearly as painful a sensation as when Claire gently pats him on the cheek, her freezing fingertips making contact with his skin.

“He’s a much better patient than you,” She teases softly before going to check on her other patient. “He hasn’t bled out all over my floors.”

Matt grits his teeth. Yet. He hasn’t stained her floors yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback is gr8, guys


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyy finals "week" is almost over and I'm p sure I bombed my APUSH midterm essay, but it's all good. Anyways, thanks to everyone who commented and gave kudos, y'all the true MVPs.

**III.**

_"I HAVE IT ALL UNDER CONTROL, DAMMIT!"_

Matt knows trying to yell over the painful din of gunfire is futile, but he doesn't really care at the moment. The air around him smells of gun powder, sweat, and blood, and screams assail him from all sides and angles, making his head throb from the cacophony. There are living, moving, hostile bodies everywhere; he can reach out in any direction and find himself touching some part of another human being. It's panic, confusion, madness.

It's a full-on gang battle.

It was bound to happen at some point what with all the crime families moving in on the Kitchen. He just never expected it to be, well, now. His obliviousness could perhaps be attributed to the fact that he'd yet to track the Chinese heroin despite the stench that bogged down the city. So far, his three week-long search had resulted in three dead ends, two close calls, three broken ribs, a stab wound (Claire, being the responsible medical professional she was, advised him to take it easy till his injuries healed, but oh well), and a whole lot of frustration.

A gun clicks to his immediate left, a finger poised and ready on the trigger. He reaches out, knocking it out of a pair of hands, and brings the gunman to his knees with a swift kick below the belt. It's probably hundredth time today he’s done that, but, hey, whatever keeps him from getting shot (because he's sure Claire won't like having to treat a gunshot wound). The scent of gunpowder is so heavy in his nose that he's pretty sure he'll be sneezing the stuff for the next few days.

No scent, whether it be gunpowder, blood, sweat, or tears, however, is strong enough to cover up that forsaken tea tree oil.

That was his first clue that Iron Fist had decided to lend a helping hand. His second was the presence of that weird heat energy; it radiated in the atmosphere, giving off heat like a flame. And his third was the way gangsters were occasionally being tossed into the air and flung into walls, but Matt would later come to realize that was more Luke Cage's doing than anyone else's.

The assistance would've been appreciated had things _not_ been under control. But they were. Oh, they _so_ were. And Matt understands that Manhattan is relatively small in terms of geography, but, goddammit, there's enough crime to go around. Hell, Spider-Man never bothers setting foot in the Kitchen, and it's not only because he doesn't want to deal with the shit Matt does, but also because he's a considerate human being. Like, people are _dying_ elsewhere, but these two fucks just _gotta_ be distracted by an insignificant gang war.

The amount of armed conflict dies down till there's only one gangster left standing. The man is shaking, and his grip on his gun is so tight it's about to break, and the scent of fear taints the air like blood in the water. Matt's about to throw his club at him, but Iron Fist gets there faster, and efficiently knocks him out with a downright artistic punch. Matt grits his teeth.

"I had it under control." He repeats breathlessly, turning towards the two men, each word carefully enunciated.

"A 'thank you, Heroes For Hire' would be real tight, y'know." Luke Cage snorts. Matt sniffs the air and nearly gags; _he_ smells like a gunpowder factory from taking all those bullets. "But, shit, I guess Daredevil really is kind of a prick."

Maybe there's a fucking reason for that, Matt thinks, but holds his commentary.

"Fine," He says through clenched teeth. " _Thank you_ , Heroes For Hire."

He turns to leave, but then Iron Fist begins speaking. Granted, it's not so much speaking as it is muttering, but it might as well be screaming to Matt's sensitive ears.

"I told you," He sighs to his partner. "Guy doesn't like people helping him. Kinda told me that when I kicked his ass a couple weeks ago. I just wish he'd understand we're not trying to steal his spotlight--"

"Sweet Christmas, _what_?" Cage inquires incredulously. "You kicked Daredevil's ass?"

"Well, yeah, I guess, but it wasn't easy--"

"Shit, like it matters!" Cage exclaims, making Matt stop in his tracks several hundred yards away. "That's _Daredevil_. Like, dude's got a hard rep. People think he's _actually_ Satan. And you kicked his ass."

"Okay, yes, but I'm telling you, Luke, I was sore for days!"

"Don't mean shit, man! C'mere, that deserves a high five!"

They do just that, and Matt hears it from a block away. It makes his fists curl, hearing people talk about him like he's some sort of spring break conquest, but he's not about to go back there just to set their story straight despite the fact he certainly did not, under any means, get his ass handed to him by a guy that smells like the Body Shop.

But then Iron Fist starts talking about the circumstances under which they met, and Matt finds himself actually listening.

"-- he was after a heroin dealer." He explains when Cage prompts him about the context. "Not just any heroin, though. It was... Well, y'know."

"Some mystic shit?"

"Basically, yes." He says. "Steel Serpent."

"Damn.”

"Uh-huh. I think he thinks he's just going after some drug lord, but it's a lot more complicated than that. I would've explained had he not _jumped_ me in that alley, but the less he knows--"

Matt sprints back towards their location. Okay, yes, the Heroes For Hire were dicks for assuming he needed help tonight ( _because everything was under control)_ , but perhaps they could be useful allies. They were, after all, on the same side of the law. And also, he’s not going to let Iron Fist keep information from him when he’s stepping into his territory because it just doesn’t (or shouldn’t, at least) work like that. He perches cautiously on the fire escape above them.

“You know something about the Chinese.” He poses it more like a statement than a question, but it certainly takes the two men by surprise.

“How long has he been up there?” Iron Fist whispers to his partner. Cage just shrugs.

Matt jumps down from the fire escape, landing in front of them neatly. “I’ve been up there long enough to hear you bragging about taking me down a while back, but that’s not the point. You _know_ something about the Chinese.”

He can practically hear the glance they exchange. Iron Fist, nonetheless, gives no implication that Matt managed to get under his skin; his heartbeat is the rhythmic lull of a calm ocean, measured and controlled with no jumps, and it drives Matt crazy because there’s no _way_ it can be so deliberate.

“If we’re on the same side,” Matt continues, his voice low. Part of him wants to press the other man into distress. “Then you should be comfortable sharing intel. _Especially_ since we’re standing on my turf.”

“This entire city doesn’t belong to you, Devil—“ Cage starts hotly, but his partner cuts him off.

“It’s not just my problem anymore, Luke.” Iron Fist shakes his head. “This is transcending into something much more… Material.”

Matt doesn’t know what he means by that, but there’s something about the way he says it that makes him think the Chinese aren’t just trying to build a drug empire. Plus, the thing Cage said earlier—something about it being mystic—makes sense, but Matt isn’t sure he wants to delve any further because he’s had his share of mysticism and it’s _far_ from fun. Nonetheless, though, he squares his shoulders and sets his jaw into a firm line.

“Spill.” He says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments plz yknow if you can spare the time


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall are awesome, thanks for all the kudos and comments

**IV.**

Team-ups are most certainly not Matt’s cup of tea.

There’s just something about them that makes Matt uncomfortable. Daredevil, after all, isn’t known to be a team player; there’d been plenty of sources labelling him as a “lone wolf”, a “solitary superhero”, and a “brooding loner” among other, less tasteful things (although _those_ labels were attributed by the criminal underworld. Or Luke Cage, probably). Matt doesn’t really pay attention to names, though, because public opinion is at an all-time high, and that’s worth more than any accolades (or lack thereof).

It’s not that he’s never been _offered_ the chance to join a team, and it’s also not like he’s never teamed up before. The last team-up, though, resulted in a broken nose courtesy of Captain America’s shield. Though Foggy and Claire found it hilarious, that instance _alone_ was enough to make Matt hate having to work with other costumed people, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

“So now they’re in the heroin business, huh?” Iron Fist muses, breaking the silence of their painstaking stake-out.

Matt nods. “For a while. I got rid of them a couple years before… You showed up.”

He tries to keep his tone polite, but he can’t help being just a little condescending. The other man snorts lightly. “Great. Just when I thought they couldn’t get any worse. Now they’re trying to make a move on…” He trails off, and Matt cocks his head. His heartbeat jumps. “Y’know what, never mind.”

Matt suspects it’s actually not as light as he’s making it seem. “Have you… Come in contact with the Chinese before?”

“Unfortunately.” Iron Fist admits, but even then, Matt knows he’s omitting something. “They, uh, don’t like me very much. This was a problem I thought I left in the past, but I guess it’s not.”

Okay, that sounds fake, but okay. But, as the saying goes, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Not that Matt considers Iron Fist his friend, though. They certainly weren’t on a first-name-basis or anything _,_ but he can overlook that stipulation if it meant cleaning up his city. After all, he’d worked with the Punisher before and they _definitely_ weren’t on amicable terms. Matt listens to the city, bowing his head and closing his eyes. He filters out all the distractions—the loud Spanish music blasting from a block away, the shouts of a domestic argument, the sound of a party on the floor directly below them—and focuses on the furtive whispers of the city’s underbelly.

“Two blocks away,” He announces, perking his head back up. “In a basement beneath an Asian market. There’s a group of men—pretty sure they’re speaking Mandarin—discussing _something.”_

Iron Fist shifts uncomfortably. “Um, what? How can you—“

Matt holds up a hand to silence him. “Shush. Someone’s speaking English now. A distributor. They’re talking about the heroin.”

“Wait, you can _hear_ —“

“Let’s go.” He says, getting up. He knows it’s kind of a dick move to leave his mission partner so confused about his abilities, but it’s only fair. After all, he still has no earthly idea what that weird flame-thing Iron Fist summons actually is.

They race across the rooftops towards the building. Matt wants to at least _try_ and get there faster than the other man, but that’s not how these things work. The market is closed, but there’s a back entrance that Matt knows is open; he hears the hinges creak and scraps of a conversation float upwards through the crack in the door. Stupid, to leave an entrance open like that. He scales down the fire escape leading into the alley, Iron Fist on his heels, and slowly opens the door. It’s a bit of a bitch to find, considering it’s well-hidden behind a stack of crates, but those creaking hinges are a dead give-away. Iron Fist, however, is still hesitant.

“Are you sure?” He asks. Matt can tell he’s sizing up the building.

“Well, I don’t speak Mandarin, but I can recognize a ring of drug lords when I hear them.” He says, a bit smug. The other man mutters something about “they’re not the ones in charge”, but Matt doesn’t really care so long as they lead to the source.

They creep down the stairs that lead down to the basement, but the smell of alcohol, heroin, and pizza hits him from the door. The stairwell is narrow, hardly wide enough for two people, but they somehow manage to make it downstairs without getting caught. Matt’s got to give it to his impromptu partner—he’s silent. Well, nearly, but Matt can hear every creak and groan of the building around them, so maybe he shouldn’t be one to judge. There’s another door at the end of the corridor which is, too, cracked open. There’s no crackle of cheap lighting, telling Matt the place is dark save for the light in the room at the end of the hall. This entire situation—the cramped hallway, the stench of desperation and organized crime—brings back horrible memories of his encounter with the Russian mob. Suddenly, he starts feeling the walls close in on him.

It’s not a pleasant feeling.

“So, how are we going to do this?” He asks Iron Fist, trying to clear his head. The scent of tea tree oil is definitely _not_ helping him do so.

“I don’t know, you’re the one calling shots.” The other man whispers. The patronizing hint in his voice is enough to jar Matt out of his mind.

“Alright, fine.” Matt says, trying to think, but the combination of the expensive aftershave and the mildew in the air is incredibly inhibiting. “We’ll position ourselves on either side of the door. Then, wait till one of them comes out of that room at the end of the hall to strike. Keep yourself out of sight till then.”

They do just that, pressing against the wall on either side of the door. The hallway is so dark and the men inside the room are so distracted with their drinks and… Prostitutes, it seems, that they go unnoticed. The scent of the place burns Matt’s nose. It’s enough to make him concentrate on the tea tree oil, high-end cologne, and expensive aftershave. For once, he doesn’t find any of those scents annoying.

Sure enough, one of the mobsters comes out; his phone buzzes in his pocket with a no-doubt important call, and he quickly excuses himself. The stillness leading up to this moment had been immobilizing, and it feels fucking _great_ being able to take the guy out. The hallways then erupts into madness, bullets and screams flying everywhere.

Matt’s only goal is to keep the fight out of the room. It’s too small for long-range weapons, and he _really_ doesn’t fancy getting shot. The hallway is only slightly better, though, because it’s so narrow, but at least there’s enough room to run and dodge bullets. He deals blow after debilitating blow, knocking weapons to the ground, and breaking a few bones in the process. Jesus, how are there so many of them? Their hangout is _way_ too small to accommodate more than six people, but more just keep showing up from who-knows-where.

After a while, he finds himself back-to-back with Iron Fist. Matt can’t help but keep his distance because he broke his fucking nose last time he fought back-to-back with someone. But Iron Fist is a little more considerate than Captain America, and is careful to mind his space. However, there’s only a certain amount of distance he can keep, which makes Matt hyper-aware of his every move. It’s kind of what happens when you have to fight with someone, he reasons, but tries really, _really_ hard not to copy Iron Fist’s admittedly cool movements. There’s heat between them, a synergy, and for a second Matt thinks this has transcended into something low-key erotic, but then realizes that it’s just that weird flame-thing again.

Nonetheless, it's all fucking exhilarating. 

Soon enough, they’re the only two left standing. Matt feels the exhaustion creeping into his limbs, but it’s overpowered by the adrenaline of a good fight. His partner is no better, his breath coming out in little puffs and his heart beating hard. Sweat mingles with his scent (a scent which Matt doesn’t find _as_ appalling anymore), but it’s surprisingly not a terrible combination. It’s… Musky. Natural. Okay.

“Good work,” Matt manages, trying to catch his breath. On the floor, a mobster groans in pain. He kicks him to shut him up. “That was… Good work.”

And, okay,  _maybe_ he wants to give him a fist-bump or a high-five or something, but Daredevil, the bad-ass lone wolf of Hell's Kitchen, doesn't  _do_ either of those. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you already know (and also sorry for the low key shipping vibes at the end)

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave kudos and comments! Thx!!!!!!!


End file.
